


Somewhere Between

by awriterthatwrites



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Porn, Crane Hand Porn, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-23 04:06:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6104398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awriterthatwrites/pseuds/awriterthatwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There must be room, somewhere for this. Somewhere between the silence and the sacrifice — there must be room for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Shower

**Author's Note:**

> Lovelies, forgive the hiatus. This fic was originally supposed to be the end chapter to "An Unknown Known", but it's changed several times with each episode. Also, my boner fic has been utterly deflated due to the abysmal writing on this show.
> 
> Digressions.
> 
> Dedicated to those fellow trash bears who want all the types of sex with the Ichabbie: shower, angst/fight sex, PTSD sex; if-this-show-was-only-on-HBO-sex.

_Quo usque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra?_  
  
Crane casts a mulish eye to the bathroom door, fingers twitching with impatience. It has been nigh two hours since the Leftenant has disappeared into the shower; an hour since Miss Jenny has checked on her; and seven minutes since he’s last heard a sound.  
  
He straightens, feeling — as he often does these days — directionless.  
  
There is no need of him here. Miss Jenny, ever practical, had placed hand-held radios throughout the house after Abbie had returned from the Catacombs, ensuring an easily accessible mode of communication at all times.  
  
Hovering here like some malapropos valet, attempting to decipher the Leftenant’s well-being by the sounds she makes as she bathes — it borders on neuroticism.  
  
And sheer lechery.  
  
His mind slides to the images that have arrested him since her return; the loose, bountiful curls that seem to have a life of their own as she walks; the decadent slips of shoulder bared in the soft shirts she’s taken to wearing; the obscene tightness of running pants that reveal the suppleness of a rear he —  
  
Crane clears his throat, abashed. If there was ever a proper time for such thoughts, it is certainly not now. Not when she’s only just been returned to him. Not when there is still so much to understand of their role in this tribulation; never mind the tablet, and the strange symbols that…  
  
_Sod it all._  
  
At present, he can’t care less. No — in truth, there’s another matter that preoccupies. It’s been pressing like a lodestone between his ribs since her return, expanding with the silences between them. Perhaps that is why he has chosen to pitch camp in front of the door tonight, a part of him undeniably…  
  
_Guilty_ , is a word that springs to mind. _Hungry_ , is another.  
  
_“Quo usque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra?”_ The Latin phrase slips past his lips once again, the irony not lost to him as the words fall deafly against the door. _For how much longer, Caitiline, will you abuse our patience?_  
  
“Chill, Crane. Way too early for Cicero.”  
  
Miss Jenny slouches against the wall, eyeing him with an amusement remarkable in its resemblance to Abbie’s. The thought constricts his breath, enough so that he averts his gaze and steps back, mindful of how ridiculous he must seem.  
  
“Apologies. I am — “ He pauses. What is he, exactly?  
  
“She’ll talk when she wants,” Miss Jenny says, sensing his unease. “‘Sides, if she needs something — that’s what the radio’s for.”  
  
He attempts a smile. “Of course.” But he knows the look he’d seen on the Leftenant’s face in the Catacombs: it was the look of someone who cannot distinguish this world from the next; the lost fortitude of a soul robbed of tangible reality.  
  
It’s not her talking that worries him; it’s the state of mind she’ll be in when she does.  
  
At length, Miss Jenny disappears, along with Master Corbin. Chinese takeout, most likely.  
  
He is alone.  
  
Save the shower.  
  
And the Leftenant.  
  
And the silence.  
  
He turns once again, determined knuckle poised to rap against the door —  
  
As the door suddenly swings open, and there she stands, enveloped by a ball of steam and the largest terrycloth robe he’s ever seen. The air is redolent with jasmine and soap and all the things he’s direly missed in her absence, and Crane gulps down the aroma as longing momentarily displaces his resolve.  
  
“Towel,” she mumbles, ducking past, and Crane stares dumbly in her wake, astonished and vexed he’s been thwarted by so prosaic a thing.


	2. The Silence

_Not again — God, not again._  
  
Abbie plunges her fingers into the towels, clutching fistfuls of the soft stacks as she breathes in their glorious, artificial scent.   
  
It’s been a thing since her return. Feeling up towels, pillows, carpet — anything, really. A surefire way to remind herself she’s back in a reality of material things. Things of weight and substance, and crappy, doctored smells.  
  
She loves those things the most.  
  
They’re so delightfully distracting in their artifice. So _modern_. So _here_. So unlike the cave rocks, which had been unyielding and timeless. Walls of selfsame grey that spanned hundreds or thousands of years. Mute and indifferent to the passage of time. To the loss of life. To her.   
  
Abbie inhales one more time, the chemical smell of Ocean Breeze burning through her nostrils.  
  
 _This right here, Mills, is real. It’s safe._   
  
Her grip loosens. She sighs.  
  
Showers — though good and hot and cleansing — still feel claustrophobic. Like she’s trapped in a room where time doesn’t count. She squints in the dim light, searching for the wrinkled whorls on her fingertips that tell her how long she’s been under the water. _An hour? Two?_ She could check the time on her phone, but that would mean getting it, and getting it would mean getting around…  
  
Him.  
  
A subtle creak of the floorboards and Abbie closes her eyes, forcing herself to put a name to the man.   
  
Him. Them — _it?_ _Fuck_ — Crane. Just Crane.   
  
Crane, who’d been in her head the whole year-month she’d been gone; so inextricably bound up with her psyche that she’d taken to calling him Brain!Crane to keep reminding herself he wasn’t real. Crane, who she’d fashioned a makeshift version out of with rocks and mud, the shadowed substance of him almost real in a certain light, so that when he’d showed up in his astral form, she’d nearly pissed herself thinking she’d somehow raised a Golem-like creature through the sheer will of her desperate, needy mind…  
  
“Leftenant.”  
  
She shuts the closet and takes a steadying breath.  
  
“Leftenant.”  
  
She inhales again. _What was the mantra they used in yoga class…?_  
  
 _“Leftenant.”_  
  
The word lands heavy, just shy of a reprimand, and Abbie opens her eyes, unable to refuse the low timbre that settles over her like a heavy cloak.   
  
He’s close. Enough so that she has to tip back to get a good look at him. He’s got that look; that Crane-is-about-to-lose-his-shit sort of look; the kind reserved for hacking killer trees to pulp and beating the shit out of grimoire-seeking warlocks.   
  
“Abbie.” He draws closer. “You must —”  
  
“I can’t do this, Crane.”   
  
The rebuff throws him. He pauses, initially stung by the refusal. It takes him a moment, but then he’s nodding, the sympathy in his eyes riling her up like a smack to a hornet’s nest.  
  
“You’re having a moment.”  
  
“Don’t do that.”  
  
“It’s alright —”  
  
“Don’t _do_ that.”  
  
“Abbie — ”  
  
She back-pedals into the bathroom, shoulders tight. She won’t do this. She won’t fight.   
  
It’s enough that the eagerness in his eyes dims a little each time she refuses an outing. That she can only manage a few bites of the feasts he’s produced each night since her return. That each stab at candor is deflected with a ready quip or a too-wide smile.   
  
She won’t drag him down with her. He deserves more than that. So much more.   
  
Even if he’s the intractable voice in her head she wants to duct tape shut.  
  
Like right now, for instance. When he's stepping into the steam-laden bathroom, all squared shoulders and determined eyes as he gears up for what she already knows is a well-meaning, if not pedantic, pep talk.  
  
She should have stayed in the closet. Least in there, the towels could bury her screams.


	3. The Sacrifice

Crane is over the threshold before logic can dictate otherwise, boots squeaking loudly against the humid tile.  
  
He takes a moment to observe her, and what he sees hurts.  
  
Everything about her reveals an unhinged state: the stiffness in her shoulders; the quickness with which she wheels the water on and off; the way she pats the shower door several times, assuring herself of its solidness.  
  
It makes him ache. It makes him crazed.  
  
“Abbie — “  
  
“It’s Thursday,” she says, toneless, back turned. “The 17th. Maybe 7, 8, pm.”  
  
Crane falls silent, familiar with this routine. It’s a drill they’ve set up; a way to orient her during these spells. What platitudes he’d meant to say evaporate. Wordlessly, he urges her to continue.  
  
She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “We had…pot roast. You cooked. Then beer. Chess.”  
  
He nods an encouragement, cringing internally at the rote description. The monotony with which she relays their time spent together — time he has come to hold sacred in light of her return — cuts him. _Does his company count for so little?_  
  
“You won the game,” she adds. “But only because my head wasn’t in it.” She turns, seeking confirmation. “See, Crane? I’m good.”  
  
_Just as a band-aid is "good" to staunch a gunshot wound_ , he grouses inwardly.  
  
An eyebrow shoots up. High. “What did you say?”  
  
_Christ. Has he said it aloud?_  
  
She turns to face him, arms crossing defensively, and Crane bites back a frown. He’d hoped to make peace by following her in here — not draw battle lines anew.  
  
Yet there’s something in her gaze that demands confrontation. A need, perhaps, to assure herself that she argues with a real human, not a figment of her mind. Crane meets her squarely, attempting a measure of gentility as he lands the first blow.  
  
“Your deflection is understandable, but entirely unhelpful. Not if you are to recover from your ordeal.”  
  
“My ordeal. My _ordeal?"_

Accusatory eyes hint at a hidden axe she’s been grinding. “My _ordeal_ , Crane, is that every time I try to breathe, you’re _there._ Buying plants. Cooking. _Hovering_. Occupying my damn house and my damn mind like they're yours to sprawl around in and even after two weeks of escaping that shithole of a dimension I _still can’t tell the damn difference."_

She runs a hand over her face, defeated. "Hell, Crane. I can't even tell if _this_ is even real."

His fingers wrap around her arm - _how thin she feels_ \- as determined eyes attempt to catch her darting gaze. "I can assure you, Leftenant. I am no mirage."

She shrugs out of his grasp. “Then do me a favor and leave. Give me space.”  
  
“A year of space wasn't enough?”  
  
It’s harsher than he means, but Crane won’t apologize for it. Her honesty has triggered his own confession, and it rumbles forth before it can be robbed of momentum. Fingers thrust into her face, counting. “Purgatory. Time travel. The Catacombs. Irrefutably noble sacrifices - far nobler than I've made. Undeniably necessary. And yet —”  
  
“Dumb?”  
  
_“Thoughtless.”_  
  
He pauses, voice softening as he gathers himself. “I have been...inestimably grateful — _joyous_ — for your return. Yet there is a part of me, Abbie — a selfish, petty part…that loathes the merits of your sacrifice.”  
  
“So, what? You hate me now?”  
  
“ _I do not_ — “ Another breath. Fighting to hold steady. “I loathe your _choice_. Your willingness to place duty above all else. Above your job, above the life you strive to build here. Above — “  
  
He stops, reluctant to play this hand, just as he had been the day of her rescue. But her large eyes seek him out, wide and curious. “Above what, Crane?”  
  
Silence. _He can't. He won't._  
  
Hands curl into the front of his shirt, fisting the cloth with urgent demand as she pulls him down to her height. “Above _what_?”

"Oh, Abbie." A thumb chases the tremble of her lip as he murmurs his greatest confession. "Surely, you must know."

" _What,_ Crane?"  
  
A moment as he searches her gaze, eyes narrowing into slits of clear sky.  “This.”  
  
And then, his mouth crashes down, sure and determined as it lays claim.


	4. The Start

It takes her a moment. It really does.  
  
Because even as his mouth slides against hers, hungry groan scuttling into the base of her spine and bristled cheek scouring her jaw, Abbie’s still not totally sure he’s real.  
  
She’d had too many of these false alarms, there. Times when she’d closed her eyes, hands slipping inside her jeans as she’d conjured his low, steady cant; the vibrations of his gentle, coaxing tenor — _Yes, Leftenant, right there, Abbie_ — enough to bring her to a shuddering, lonely climax.  
  
Each time, she’d open her eyes to blinding sun. Each time, she’d become a little hollower inside.  
  
Even as she breaks the kiss, he’s pushing away, flushed and contrite. “Forgive me, I — ”  
  
“No, it’s — no.” She pulls at the tassels of his shirt, twisting and winding them as she struggles to explain. “I don't mean  — ”  
  
Her hands swipe up his chest in reassurance. The cloth feels soft; worn. As if it’s been slept in too many nights. Her chest squeezes at that — another warning sign of how bound up she in every damn thing about him.  
  
But the throb between her legs is pulsing louder than than the critics in her head, and so she boldly pushes a hand into the opening of his shirt, hands scratching over his heated, beating heart.  
  
“Tell me more things you hate.”  
  
His eyes widen, wondering if she’s determined to recommence their fight —  
  
“I mean, God. Sorry. I need — the brain version of you —”  
  
“Brain Crane,” he remarks dryly. “Charming, that.”  
  
“That version — he’s always hopeful when he talks to me. And peppy. So goddamn peppy. Guess I had to be to convince myself I’d get out of there.” Ice shoots through her veins at the memory; she shivers, shoving it down before he can comment, and meets his questioning gaze with what she hopes is an encouraging smile.  
  
“Tell me things, Crane. Things I wouldn't think you'd say. Things that let me know...”  
  
“That this is real,” he finishes.  
  
Understanding fills his gaze, and along with it, a cocked eyebrow that telegraphs mischief.  
  
Hands slide into her hair, parting and curling the tendrils around his long fingers. “I despise that until now, I’ve not seen the natural glory of your hair in full.” He brushes the curls, landing a wet kiss at her nape, and she whimpers as the skin shudders under his lips. _God, why did she wait so long to feel this?_  
  
His mouth continues, hot and slick as it dives between her neck and shoulder. “I revile those abhorrent blazers you wear because they rob me of this — “ A nip at her collarbone, eliciting a small shudder. “And this.” A nip at the other; full-on quakes.  
  
“And most loathsome of all…” He loops a finger into the knot of her robe. “ _Terrycloth_ ,” he mutters disdainfully, the very word sour in his mouth. “Robes, trousers, leggings, _skinny jeans..._ all of your accursed clothing, thwarting the most ardent of my quests.” He cups her rear with eager paws and _squeezes,_ moaning with the contentment of a man who's reached the pinnacle of a long-sought salvation.

Abbie rolls her eyes. “Yeah. This sounds like real-world Crane, alright.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
She wiggles into his grabby palms. “First time you saw me in Spandex, thought you were gonna have a stroke.”  
  
“Would that have warranted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?”  
  
“Mess,” she says affectionately, looping her arms around his neck.  
  
“Have I passed your test, then?” He captures her earlobe, tongue swirling expertly as he catches the lobe between his teeth, and Abbie bites back a moan.  
  
“ _Damn_ , Crane, yes…”  
  
“Good.”  
  
"Just..." She draws back, uncertainty rearing full force again. There are _things_ she needs to tell him. Things he doesn't know. Things she's tried so damn hard to forget...

She breathes in. Shoves it back down. Brow furrowing as she traces the bridge of his nose. "Just...easy on the neck, OK? Last thing I want to report to Reynolds is a bunch of hickeys."  
  
"Perish the thought," he agrees, and slides the robe off of her shoulders, reaching for her breasts instead.  
  
Though elegant, Crane's hands have always harbored stubborn callouses - a product of the countless weapons they've wielded during this war. Abbie briefly sends up a note of thanks for every damn sword and crossbow he's handled. The rough texture of his fingers scratches over her too-sensitive skin, scorching her in their abrasion, and she feels electric under his touch, like sparks should be flying where skin meets.  
  
She watches, entranced, as he cups her breasts - gently, at first; feather-light caresses that dance across raised flesh, and then more confidently; sure, capable thumbs skating across puckered tips that ache with the onslaught of new sensation. His mouth closes over one, hot and needy as his tongue snakes around the peak, and she arches, lightening behind her eyes.  
  
He's still palming and kissing and suckling at her when he backs them towards the sink, hands possessive as they lift and squeeze. Her fingers can't help but glide under his shirt; fanning out over a protrusion of ribs that would be pitiful if it weren’t for the layer of hard muscle over them; lean sinew that flexes and dances with every pull and push of their frames. He’s thinner than she remembers, but still an oak of a man, solid enough to hoist her up against him as he deftly undoes the knot at her middle.  
  
Abbie sighs as he parts her legs, drawing himself into their cradle. The coarse cloth of his pants offers a welcome roughness, and she winds herself around him, determined to burn every new sensation into her neural net; sensations that remind her she's _here_ , and they're _now_.  
  
And then -   
  
It's almost like a shift in a movie reel; a shake of a scene; but she's suddenly back on the sand-caked ground, alone and writhing against a rock as the Crane of her mind works his mouth down her sweat-soaked shirt, coat and trousers stained black from the sooty ground. Abbie grabs at his head, guiding him to where she most needs him to be, and all she can think is _damn._ This fantasy’s got _legs_.

The sights, the sounds, the _feel_ …maybe her mind’s been holding out on her; maybe this is the suped-up, 3D-IMAX version of her dreams; maybe this is all happening in a parallel universe; maybe —  
  
Her bare back hits the wall as they stumble into the shower, and the spray of the water shocks her back to reality.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
This is no fantasy.

This is Crane, and this is her; legs half-wrapped around his beanpole frame as he notches himself between her thighs and releases himself.


	5. The Segue

_Madness_ , Crane thinks. _Sheer and utter madness._  
  
Not moments ago, he was certain he’d demolished the trust they had begun to re-build with his brash confession.  
  
Now, he stands in the cradle of the Leftenant’s embrace, her small hand stealing between them to pull him down as she angles up for another heated kiss.  
  
_Lord help me_ , he thinks, her tongue dipping into his slack-jawed mouth, licking and sucking with an ardor that borders on manic.  
  
She’d come alive the moment he’d deposited her onto the sink, as if being in equal in height has somehow roused the dormant Amazon within her diminutive frame.  
  
And he’s in no position to object — not when her deft, small fingers make quick work of his shirt, nails stealing beneath the fabric to rake across his sweat-laden stomach. Not when her plush mouth sucks at the tendons on his neck with such consistent, wanton fervor that he briefly wonders if she’s not mistaken him for a roast — or perhaps those hot wings she most favors from Mabie’s.  
  
It’s only when she fumbles at the placket of his trousers, eager fingers reaching in to his pants with a pace that verges on panic, that he begins to suspect something is off.  
  
“Abbie — ”  
  
He pulls back, attempting to catch her eye, but she’s locked onto the space between them, gaze firmly affixed to the blatant outline of his cock straining beneath his trousers. Her tongue darts out to lick the corner of her mouth, torturous in its promising acrobatics, and Crane buckles when she leans into his ear, whispering all the things she means to do once he’s free.  
  
A better man would take heed and slow things down. A nobler man would ask after the lady’s state of mind before proceeding.  
  
But he is none of these things tonight. The restraint he’d once so prized has been stripped from him during her absence. Each failed try to bring her home had brought with it an increased determination that had, over time, evolved into pathological recklessness.  
  
Ichabod Crane has become a desperate man in the Leftenant's absence, and he's glad of it — for it has brought them here.  
  
He fumbles at her waist, undoing the infernal knot at her middle, the sopping bulk of her robe at last falling away, and —  
  
_Sweet God in heaven._  
  
Crane’s mouth goes dry as his eyes roam helplessly over her. She’s slightly thinner than he remembers; sinewy in a way that recalls a long-distance runner. But the curves he’s spent nights imagining are all still there: the rising swell of hip; the indent of tucked waist; the bountiful glory of a supple, full backside, and ripe breasts that look infinitely better bare than trapped behind a silken camisole.

  If she’d been a creature from that alternate realm, he’d call her a deity. Here, he’ll settle for divine.    
  
Hands roam greedily over her form, skating down the contoured length of her ribs, measuring the expanse of her breaths. His fingers dwarf her, nearly spanning the length of her small waist, and he pauses to marvel at just how small she truly is — here, without the toughness of leather or the heft of a gun. She is fierce and soft, his diminutive being; a treasure that merits worship just as much as it does defense. A fierce wave of protectiveness sweeps through him; enough so that he instinctively draws closer, as if he can somehow enfold her within him.

But propelled by a driving want that usurps her usual logic, she mistakes his gesture for impatience, and hurriedly undoes his trouser buttons, wrapping her legs  around him as she strains to gain a foothold.

"Abbie," he gasps, mind lost, senses cracking.

"C'mon, Captain," she whispers.

And that's all it takes.

Half-dazed, he shoves the shower door open, thrusting them both into the steam-laden stall. Her chilled form clings to him, shampoos and conditioners flying as he scrambles for purchase against a ledge, cocooning her writhing frame between him and the wall. Water soaks the back of his neck, but he barely notices; too intent on the small hand that encircles the length of him, insistent as it pulls him towards the heated space between her thighs.  
  
“ _Abbie,_ please." He is only but a man; and a deprived one at that. This won't last if she continues to —   
  
“C’mon, Crane — _c’mon_.” Her hand reaches between them, and he's unable to do much but moan and pray that he can keep himself together and take both their weights as his knees buckle and his breath catches and she guides him towards the hallowed, heated sanctuary he’s dreamt of losing himself in so many, _yes, so_ many accursed, lonely nights...

Close now —

So close —

And...

Nothing.  
  
His eyes pop open. Look down in confusion. He's hard and insistent against the Leftenant’s soft abdomen, rising and falling with her slow breaths. She is staring over his shoulder, gaze distant, lips moving soundlessly over words he can’t make out. Her body’s gone limp, like her strings have been cut, arms motionless and shoulders slumped as she loses herself in whatever phantasm has arrested her mind.  
  
The tableau would be beautiful, were it not so terrifying.  
  
“Abbie.”  
  
He thumbs her cheek, attempting to draw her back.  
  
“Abbie.” Louder. Firmer.  
  
_“Abigail.”_  
  
She starts, eyes snapping back, first to his face, and then to their surroundings. Panic flashes across her features at the temporary disorientation, and Crane steadies her, concern overriding desire.  
  
Her fingers graze the scar on his chest; drop to the wound at his hip, swirling around the reddened skin.  
  
“That kid with the blade hand,” she says softly. “You stabbed yourself with the vial.”  
  
“Yes.”

 “This is _you-_ you. Not Brain-you.”  
  
He nods, and she falls against him with a pained sigh. He holds her like that for a while, fingers combing through her hair, arms enfolding her in a loose embrace.

The respite gives him time to collect his thoughts. Logic, once trumped by impetuous need, now slowly returns. _This is too much. Too fast._ He draws away, prepared to tell her that she still needs time —

"No," she protests, reading his mind. Her hands slide around his palm, urgent and determined. "Focus, Crane."

And with that, she guides him in between her thighs.

 _“Good Christ.”_  
  
The curse escapes him on a groan, and his mind shatters. She is unbearably wet, insufferably hot and _God’s wounds_ , how he had lain awake nights during her absence, tormented by the thought that they’d been robbed of one another before they’d even begun. Even here, water pouring over them, he can feel how desirous she is; how the molten liquid between her thighs burns hotter than the water around them.  
  
“I thought of you there. Like this." She rolls against his hand, unable to meet his gaze as she lets slip the whispered confession.  
  
His fingers curl through her slick folds delicately, mindful of how much it takes her to admit this. And yet, he also knows that it is meant as a diversion; a way to distract him from asking the harder questions; the important ones. The ones that wish to inquire after her unvoiced demons; of the shadows that plague her even when she does her best to conceal them. 

But he won't demand what she can't yet give. Instead, he cocks an eyebrow and pitches his voice low, hoping to strike just the right affect. “Is this how I touched you?”

She shudders.

“Is it, Abigail?”

One finger slowly thrusts in, and he groans at the tightness that shudders around him.  
  
His lips dip to her ear, tracing the sensitive shell with torturous brushes.  “Did you cry out for me, as I did for you? Regretting all that was left unsaid…cursing yourself for having lived on half-truths that have been whole lies, as you once so accurately stated…”  
  
“Shutup, Crane,” she groans in frustration. " _Damn_..."  
  
Two fingers slide in leisurely, methodical and controlled as they scissor and explore. He's drowning in her, but it's not enough. He wants to unravel her, completely and thoroughly, so that _this_ is the only moment that exists; that _here_ is the only place she lives.

He parts her legs wider, tilting her hips to reach the sensitive, overripe space within her with each deep stroke. “You would rather sacrifice your life than unveil your heart, Grace Abigail Mills, even though it proclaims its love —”  
  
A thrust.  “With every guarded look…”  
  
She gasps and arches. “Every brief touch…”  
  
A slow, methodical circle around her clit. “Every unsaid word.”

And she comes like that, clamping down around his fingers with deep, ragged shudders. Fingernails scoring his arms as she buries herself in his neck, attempting to disguise the relieved, guttural cry that escapes from somewhere within her that's lost and needy. 

Though his heart breaks for her, Ichabod Crane can't help but smile. 

Despite her best intentions, Abigail Mills has finally let a wall come down, and he'll be damned if he's not on a warpath to demolish the rest. 

 


	6. The Somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welp. This got angsty. *sprinkles double dose of smut onto dumpster heap and sets it on fire*
> 
> Enjoie.

_“Aw, damn.”_  
  
The curse falls out between stuttering breaths as Abbie digs into Crane’s lithe shoulders, head buried against him.  
  
She’s not ready to meet his eyes. Not yet. Because she knows —and _he_ knows that she knows — that it’s not just about those fingers. (And Jenny owes her $50, ‘cause that man knows _exactly_ what the hell he’s doing when he's waving them around like that).  
  
No — it’s what he’d said as he’d expertly driven them within her, punctuating the sting of her unvoiced love with each expertly curled stroke.  
  
He'd called her bluff. And now...he's going to want to talk about it.  

If she's being honest, he’s wanted to ever since he’d followed her into the bathroom, beseeching blues telegraphing his unmet need for full-on, all-out, emotional discourse.  
  
A small, resigned sigh escapes her. She knows she owes it to him. He’s been so tolerant; so patient. Even now, Lord bless him, cock hard and chest heaving as he struggles to contain a desire that’s been years in the making, he’s stock-still between her thighs, waiting patiently for her to make up her mind.  
  
Because he knows how difficult this is. Because he knows _her_.  
  
“I still get these moments,” she confesses at length. The words escape from somewhere below his shoulder, muffled and weary. She hates how defeated she sounds. “I’m there, back with you. But it’s not _you:_ it’s _me_. Or your astral you. I don’t —”  Abbie sucks in her bottom lip, hunting for the right words. “I don’t know what the hell it is, Crane.”  
  
At length, she closes her eyes. “You don’t deserve my crazy. You don’t deserve any of this.”  
  
_“Abbie._ ” He draws back, the reprieve in his tone gentle. It makes the lump in her throat burn, and she bites down to still an involuntary tremble, girding herself for the inevitable…  
  
But then, she feels his hands skim her thighs. Fingers curling around her hips. His eyes are edged with something hard; something that crackles the air between them.

“Are you certain?” he asks. It’s said slowly, eyes affixed to her face, ensuring she comprehends fully.  
  
_Oh._  
  
Abbie shifts, suddenly aware of the sweat that’s been gathering between her breasts. Of the low, pulsating throb that’s beating a steady rhythm between her legs despite the mental tennis match she’s got going on.  
  
_Crane wants this._ Sharing Feeling Time pending further notice.  
  
“Yes,” she hears herself say. Before she can second-guess; before logic returns; before Professor Crane can emerge, propriety guns a-blazing.  
  
He meets her for a slow, succulent kiss — one that has her licking the droplets of water from his beard, salty with the sweat of him — and then he leans back, giving her a very thorough once-over.  
  
“Then what would you have of me?”  
  
_“Seriously?”_  
  
His cock is leaking against her thigh, his eyes devouring as they fall to her blushed, wet sex. What the hell does he _think_ she wants?  
  
Pointedly, she encircles the blunt head of him — a few circular, leisurely strokes — conveying exactly what she means to have, and he moans beneath her caress. A small, triumphant smile escapes as she pulls him close.

And yet...

Even as the half of her craves to take him inside, the other half wants to spring the fuck off the ledge and disappear as fast as fucking possible...because he's already too close. 

In the Catacombs, Crane's presence had been a necessary comfort. An anchor to a reality she’d needed to cling to. But here, back in the real world, his closeness is...uncomfortable. Invasive, even. He’s too enmeshed within her; too bound up within her psyche.

But all Abbie's had to sustain herself during this past year — month, _whatever_ — is doubt. About her future, about her sanity; her life. A part of her craves certainty; things that are solid and steadfast; things she can rely on.

And Crane is all of that. Right here, _right now._  
  
Abbie parts her thighs, the invitation unmistakable.  
  
He answers easily, as if they’ve been doing this for years. Pushing forward and sliding against her as he basks in the delicious feel of how wet she is; how she's managed — despite her fits of reality jumping — to still respond to him so readily, to still be so in tune.  
  
And when she can no longer stand the teasing, when he’s got her writhing and hot and so drenched she’s embarrassed by it, she pulls him forward, grabbing handfuls of colonial ass in a wordless plea.  
  
His eyes go black with need. “Abbie. Look at me.”  
  
And she does, God help her; she watches, transfixed, as he hoists her up against him and slowly, deliberately, slides her down over his thick, straining cock.  
  
_Fuck,_ she inhales sharply, drawing a shuddering breath as clarity dawns with belated foresight. _That’s why she's avoided this_. Why she’s deflected every dinner date, every glass of wine, every romantic gesture.

This was her last stronghold of solitude.  
  
Crane had already invaded her mind long ago — the Catacombs had only reinforced that. And her heart — well, that had been given without her permission somewhere along the way.  
  
But _this_ — this part that he's pushing into and making himself at home in, as if he’s belonged there all along…and the sensory overload of it — how good he feels; how deep he is; how goddamn molded they are to each other — she fucking hates _everything_ about it.  
  
Because when they're done, when this last part of her and him bleed together like watercolors on paper, it'll just be one more fear she’ll have to harbor.  
  
One more precious thing that can be taken away.  
  
“Alright?” Crane pants.  
  
_Yes. No_. She rears back, craving space; some breathing room. But it makes him bear down all the more, grinding his narrow hips into her, and she moans in defeat. He feels so goddamn _good_ ; the pleasure and discomfort of it pushing her limits.  
  
It makes her feel solid, and real, and _alive._  
  
And she means to tell him, she really does. She wants to quell the worry in his eyes that she’s still checked out; she wants to tell him so much more than that, because it’s Crane — Crane, who cooks her seven-course meals; who insists they’ve lived lifetimes together; who’s come back to her, despite alternate dimensions and that goddamn nine-month walkabout.  
  
He deserves every word, every assurance, every vow.  
  
But all she can do is drag her eyes up to his, raw with need. “Fuck me, Crane,” she pleads. “Just — ”  
  
And with that, his eyes flick up to ensure she’s completely with him, and slams into her so hard that her head cracks against the shower tile.  
  
Abbie moans in relief as she hits the wall, teeth rattling with the urgent force of it. Her body shudders gratefully as he sets an unyielding rhythm, and she can’t help but curl herself around him, welcoming the punishing pace.  
  
“Let go, Abbie,” he pants between labored breaths. “Let go…”  
  
And she does, goddamn him. Arms tight and body arched and hips canting in a frantic rhythm, she relaxes into the large hands that palm her ass as she allows herself to be fucked.

Usually, she’s the control freak. The take-charge-even-in-bed type. Always careful, always in check to not let herself go. But here, with him…her hands weave through his hair, needy moans echoing against the tile as he grazes the soft tendons of her neck.  
  
With him, she can just let herself _feel._  
  
Crane’s hands are everywhere, forceful and tender as they roam over her with greedy urgency. There will be, she knows, bruises on her thighs and ribs; she can already feel his fingerprints digging into the soft flesh, imprinting onto her skin as he wills her to give herself over.  
  
“Yes, Abbie,” he groans. “ _Yes_.”  
  
His teeth close over the arch of her jaw and she shivers. He swirls against her, hitting her at just the right angle, and —  
  
“ _There_ , yes, Crane, _God_ , right there — ”  
  
And Crane would surely revel in her words if he weren’t so undone himself. She is unforgivingly tight around him; hot and welcoming and so very wet that he already feels himself swelling; his release bearing down upon him with unholy speed.  
  
And yet, despite her encouraging cries, despite the ease with which she welcomes him, Crane knows there’s a limit to their joining. There is a part of her that doesn’t bend; an iron will that prizes duty over want; that will always compel her to choose their roles in this war over one other.  
  
Desperation robs him of restraint, and he slams into her, determined. There _must_ be room, somewhere for this. Somewhere between the silence and the sacrifice — there _must_ be room for them.  
  
His pace grows erratic, harsh. Each thrust seeking to anchor her; pull her back from shadow of the past and into _here_ ; _this_ time, _this_ moment.  
  
He wants her to choose this — choose _them._ Just once — _this_ moment — Ichabod Crane wants her to choose love.  
  
“I want this, Abigail.”  
  
The utterance shatters her cocoon of silence, and she opens her eyes with reluctance, wary of the desperation that's crept into his tone.  
  
“I want your love…”  
  
“Crane —”  
  
He crushes her waist, pulling her to him.  
  
“I want your future…”  
  
“ _Crane_ —”  
  
Shoving her up against the tile so hard it squeaks —  
  
“All the things…you deny us…”  
  
And with a long, jagged moan, he’s coming, head in her neck and limbs straining as he stills and shudders.  
  
“Abbie,” he gasps raggedly. “Abbie.”  
  
She licks his tears as they run; eddies of salt against her eyelashes. She knows he breaks for the both of them; for what she won’t say; for what they both desire, for the uncertainty that seems to plague them, even in this most intimate of moments.  
  
At length, his gasps subside. Thrusts slow and languid as he recovers. She’s so full of him — so saturated with the awareness of how he feels; how he sounds; how he trembles against her. She wants to push away; she wants to draw him closer. She flexes around him, body still pulsing with unmet need, wondering where they hell they go from here.  
  
If she'd ever imagined anything beyond this point, it wouldn’t be this.  
  
That spent, exhausted and drained, Crane’s still hard and insistent within her. That despite the tremor in his limbs, he’s still got the strength to turn her around and bend her over, palming her ass with unerring reverence as he slides back inside.  
  
Her cheek hits the wall, sweat-soaked. Hair matted to her face and palms clinging to the ledge as she swirls back against him, meeting a rhythm that’s slow and deep and makes her want to sob from its tenderness.  
  
She flutters; can already feel herself tensing around him. _Goddamn_ ; she’s going to come soon; can feel it low in her belly.  
  
As if reading her mind, Crane slows. Mouth next to her ear as he nuzzles her neck. “Will you say it now?”  
  
“What?”  
  
He grinds against her for emphasis. “What you’ve refused to tell me.”  
  
“Crane — ”  
  
He slides out slowly, pauses, and then hitches back in, merciless in his assault. “Tell me, Abbie.”  
  
_She can’t. She won’t. She —_  
  
And then, his mouth is licking a trail from her shoulderblades to the small of her back, tongue dragging down the length of her spine.  
  
If he wasn’t holding her up, she’d have slid to the ground.  
  
_“_ God _...damn."_

A hand glides over her round, wet rear, chasing rivulets of water as they dip and flow over her. Down to her waist, and lower, between her thighs. An expert flick at the hardened nub at her center; enough to make her knees buckle.

"Tell me, Treasure."

"Fuck you, Crane."

His hips, which have been churning slow and steady against her, still completely. Something high-pitched and inhuman mewls out of her in protest, and she can actually _hear_ him smirk.

"Language," he chastises indulgently, squeezing her for emphasis. And then, more firmly: "Tell me, Abigail."

Her body pulses, straining for a peak it can't reach on its own. He's unyielding inside her, unrepentant as he presses her between his taut body and the thankless, cold, shower tile. She squirms, seeking to bring herself the blinding release that suspends thought, that puts confessions on the back-burner, but Crane's having none of it.

A deceitful finger presses against her clit, merciless in its pressure.

"Please, Crane...please, please...please..."

" _Tell me."_

Abbie doesn't know if it's her stupid body that gives her up, or her exhausted mind. Maybe it's a combination of both. Either way, she sags against him, head falling back into his shoulder as the words tumble out in defeat.

“She showed me.” Her voice is low as she presses her face against his. “She showed me…us, Crane."

"Pandora?" he hedges.

She nods, heat coiling tight in her belly as he begins to move again, easing the pressure within. "Our future, our path. Our...”

The next sentence is swallowed by a moan, and she has to concentrate to get the word out. "Our..."  
  
“Our what?”

Wordlessly, her hand brushes over his, where it lays across her abdomen. Crane freezes. _Children?_ The thought elates even as it terrifies him. Could _this_ …? Are they, right _now_ …?  
  
“Yeah,” she says shakily, reading his mind. Her tears trickle over his fingers, but she’s no longer ashamed. “Our reason for being here…our roles, our _everything_...Crane — Ichabod…it’s all gonna be taken away. _All_ of it…”

And then, something uncoils within her as the last confession falls, terror and guilt and panic spiraling upwards and through her with a great, pulsating rush, and she comes, orgasm ripping through her like a blazing star careening across the night sky.

For the briefest of moments, she's back _there,_ prostrate on the floor, Crane over her, their shadows pressing into the stone, symbols burning onto their skins —

And then she's slamming back into her body, pulsing as she collapses around him with a deep, strained cry.

Dimly, she feels him come again, words of love pressed against her skin. 

And she lets go.

~~~~~~~~~

It's a while later that she finds herself stirring in bed. He’s there, wrapped around her, voice rumbling along her spine as he tucks her back against him.

“Shh,” is murmured into her temple. She tries to heed its soft command: to not think about apocalyptic prophecies, or the myriad choices that have brought them to this moment; or that their choice might be the source of losing everything she holds most dear…  
  
“I know your stubborn pride would have you suffer this alone,” he whispers. “I know your fears keep you from sharing your burdens.” He intertwines their fingers, bringing them to her chest. “But believe me, Abbie…if there is anything that our time together has taught me, it is that only with each other do we succeed.”  
  
His arm tightens around her waist, securing her. “Be it in battle or…building a pram…I’m confident we will emerge victorious.”  
  
She hears it in his voice — he’s terrified, too. Of all they have to lose; of all that can be taken away. The realization emboldens her. Fragile, fractured hope rises through the cracks of her battered heart, and she presses back against him, a little less uncertain.  
  
“Stroller. No pram," she says at length. "Gotta be something I can run with."

"Fitted with accompanying side holster, no doubt."

"My man," she says, curling back against him.

"Indeed," Crane says, and closes the space between them.

 


End file.
